Lara Temple - Lord Crayle's Secret World

* * *

An hour later Anderson entered Michael’s office, and Michael glanced up from the documents he was inspecting.

‘Well?’ he asked, taking in his friend’s relaxed smile.

‘Well, you were right and I was wrong. I think she’ll do just fine. I’ll work on a schedule for her as of next week. Give them time to find accommodation and settle in the area first. What an extraordinary young woman...’ He trailed off.

‘A nonpareil,’ Michael said drily after a moment. ‘So, what training are you considering?’

‘Well, given our experience in the Varenne case, I thought she should brush up on her social skills. She’s not completely green—she spent three years in country society out near Oxford, but she was never in London society, so the finer points of Almack’s are lost on her. Albermarle will be happy to have someone to train aside from the usual roster of ruffians as he calls them. Paretski on politics and Antonelli will start her on a physical regimen including fencing. And Deakins, of course.’

‘Of course. Sabotage.’

‘All right, Michael, what’s wrong?’ Anderson asked with uncharacteristic bluntness. ‘This was your idea, but you’re about as enthusiastic as mud.’

Michael considered his words carefully.

‘I’m not sure we can trust her.’

‘If you don’t trust her, then why the devil did you recruit her?’

‘That is different. I trust her to carry out whatever mission you impose in full faithfulness to you and King. I do not trust her...motivations.’

That was not quite the word he was looking for. In fact, now that he thought of it, he could not completely pin down where his feeling of unease stemmed from. Perhaps it was the undefinable quality of his discomfort that bothered him most about her. He preferred to know where the threat was coming from.

‘I think you’re just miffed she almost put a bullet through you.’ Anderson snorted.

‘You’re probably right,’ Michael conceded with a self-deprecating smile. ‘What a blow to my self-esteem!’

‘She’s meeting Antonelli at ten o’clock next Monday morning,’ Anderson said after a moment. ‘You should come by and have a look.’

Michael felt a surge of affection for his gentle, always-conciliating friend. It was a constant wonder to him that someone so averse to discord could derive such pleasure from managing a band of spies.

‘I will be there.’

Chapter Six

The following Monday morning Michael closed the door of the salle d’escrime quietly behind him. Both Antonelli and Sari were completely concentrated on each other and the clash of their foils. Antonelli was clearly a master fencer, guiding and correcting without a word or a discordant gesture. What surprised Michael was that the young woman was good, if unorthodox in her style.

She wielded her foil like a sabre, with long smooth strokes, coming in from irregular angles and forcing Antonelli to adjust in ways Michael knew must feel unnatural for him. What was most surprising was that the old master had not pinned her down, disarmed her and given her an earful for not respecting tradition. He had certainly done so to Michael during their first encounter some twenty years ago. Where the devil had she learned this?

Finally, Antonelli took the full offensive, drove her back off the strip and flipped her foil out of her grip with a powerful lunge.

‘Touché, et bien touché.’ She saluted with a breathless laugh, her cheeks flushed.

Antonelli gave a slight bow, his greying hair still almost perfectly coifed. Only the faintest sheen on his face denoted he had exerted himself at all.

‘Et bien joué,’ he returned. ‘But you need a firmer grip, signorina. And there is too much swing in your arcs. Each should be an inch shorter; do not waste energy slicing the air. Fluide, mais courte.’

She stood to attention as Antonelli rattled off his criticism, fully focused, her hand unconsciously responding to his comments. Michael smiled. So far it seemed the only person who brought out her prickliness was himself. He took a couple of steps forward away from the door and they both looked up in surprise.

‘Michael!’ Antonelli exclaimed, using the Italian pronunciation, Mee-ka-el. ‘But how wonderful! You are neglecting me, my friend.’

‘Not intentionally, Marco. I have been busy up north.’ He took Antonelli’s hand warmly.

‘Always busy. It is not good for the soul, young man.’

Michael smiled at Antonelli’s mode of address. He had never stopped calling him young and he wondered what it would take for him to change.

‘Well, I’m willing to make amends, if you have the time. And if Miss Trevor hasn’t worn you out, old man.’

Sari was startled into an involuntary gurgle of laughter at the mock concern in the earl’s tone.

‘I tried. Desperately,’ she said. ‘I think Signor Antonelli could have disarmed me in his sleep.’

‘I sympathise,’ Michael replied. ‘For the first year I trained with this taskmaster I don’t think he looked up once from the book he was reading except to tell me the session was over.’

Sari laughed and Antonelli shook his head, smiling indulgently at them.

‘It was surely a very enthralling book...’ she offered as palliative, but Michael shook his head.

‘I appreciate the attempt at redemption, but it was no such thing. I didn’t even rank above Reverend Trull’s Sermons on the Decay of Modern Morals.’

The absurdity of Antonelli being engrossed by such a book was clearly too much for Sari, and she burst out laughing. Antonelli chuckled.

‘Enough of that, you two. Now, signorina, you had better run and change if you are not to be late for Mr Deakins, he of the gunpowder and smoke. It would not do to upset him.’

* * *

Sari was reluctant to leave, but she smiled at the two men and left the salle. She was intrigued by the change in Lord Crayle from her previous encounters. It was hard to reconcile his light hearted self-deprecation with the tight control or the watchful disdain that had characterised their previous meetings. She wondered which of these personas reflected the real man.

Certainly she knew he was anything but inept at fencing. Anderson had casually mentioned that Lord Crayle was one of the country’s finest fencers. She had the instinctive feeling that although he might laugh at himself, it was because he could afford to. He might not be as forgiving towards himself if he were to fail in earnest. She would do well to remember that under his unexpected and disquieting charm was the cold and ruthless focus she had witnessed back on the Heath.

She shook her head, as if to free it of these thoughts. This was her first day at the Institute and she needed to be focused. She had to keep reminding herself this was real. From the moment she had returned to tell George and Mina that she had indeed secured employment, everything had been a slightly unreal whirl of activity. George had done them proud by using his contacts at the hostelry to find a lovely little house for rent in Pimlico with one room for her, one for George and Mina and another for Charlie when he would come to London for the holidays. The sorry sum of their belongings had not taken up half a cart, but Mina had inspected their new rooms with a sweeping martial gaze. When she was armed with a fistful of coins, Sari had full faith it would not take Mina long to turn the modest furnished house into a warm home.

But perhaps the most rewarding moment had been sending off the letter to Charlie’s headmaster, including the arrears in fees, and another to Charlie himself telling him of their new direction. She had never told him how low they had sunk and she was not going to tell him how they were now evading debtors’ prison. She wanted him happy and safe and unworried. For the first time in years she felt a return of optimism.